-This Ain't My Fight-
by Alexander peachtree
Summary: [He really didn't have a choice. It was here or starve.] A little more back story on the clan techie of 'Dredd'. Brief overview of his rough early days in the Mama clan, and moving onto getting those 'eyes'. Warnings: Violence (mutilation, torture) non-con (M/M), Language and references of drug use. Chapter 2 gets graphic.
1. Chapter 1

Megacity one was a rough place to be, for everyone. Citizens, gang members, judges, it didn't matter who you were, either way it always boiled down to the fact you were nothing more than meat. Walking, talking slabs for the recyc. The end of the world had been and gone, and they were all still here, wallowing in the after math they called a megacity. The gigantic, concrete constructed cities, amidst the blocks outside, were no safer than the streets; in fact, nowhere was safe. This was a fact you ALWAYS kept in mind in this 'new world', or you might as well stick your own neck on the chopping block. At the end of the way you were disposable, eight hundred million people crammed into a tarmac system; all disposable. If you had nothing else left, you found someone who'd take you in, and you better damn well have a skill. Gangs, 'new families' who'll feed you, so long as you offered them something; Gun training, hand to hand combat, medical skills, or techie training were all desirable qualities, and if you had one of these, you stood a chance.

He had the last one, because he sure didn't have gun skills or combat training. He might have been tall, hitting up at about 6'1, but his physical prowess was most certainly lacking. He was a lithe, pale child, almost sickly pale when coupled with how thin he was, and this was only extenuated by the lengths of greasy, unkempt ginger hair that fell around his face and over his shoulders. Had he been in better condition, he might have clawed himself the description of 'pretty', but he'd certainly never be masculine. Still, being called pretty was just as dangerous within the gang circles, and if you thought the only people pushed into the whore house industries were women, you were wrong. Maybe he was bright enough to know this, and that's why he kept himself so run down looking.

He was young, too, early 20's if that, but he didn't really debate himself with many. He didn't have anyone, and that's why he found himself where he was. No parents to speak of, they were long gone. He'd only had a mother to begin with, and no idea who his father was. He didn't think his mother even knew who his father was, but she'd still been a good woman, ultimately. When she died though, she died poor, and he had nothing left. If he'd had any idea what was going to happen to him, he might have opted to stay on the streets, risk starvation, risk death, hell even risk judges. The situation he got himself into was actually making the idea of a few years in the isocubes a little more alluring. Still the urge to eat was a strong one.

So he's started (and stayed) roughly at the bottom of The MaMa clan, the first one who'd have him. He was a self-taught whiz with computers, technology was his niche and he looked it. He'd not really earned his position straight off though, oh no, apparently the first thing a clan did was teach him his place, teach an already desolate and desperate young man how to behave to his superiors. They could have just told him, maybe shoved a knife in front of his face and he'd have gotten the idea, but that's not how the system worked apparently. He knew torture in a fair few of its many forms now, and those memories kept him well and truly in his place.

For the first few weeks it had been just about bearable, a few beatings here and there as and when he found himself in the 'wrong place', although they never did specify which places were the wrong place. Apparently said places changes with what day it was, but even if he wanted too he couldn't defend himself, and if they wanted something to kick around he was the ball and that's how it was. They never did much serious damage to him, a few bruises, sprains, but never any breaks or much blood shed. He'd had so many knives held to his throat to make him squirm that eventually it became common place, but it still never stopped him squirming. They liked that, and it was better to satisfy them than give them an open invite to try harder. It had gotten worst though, when one day a specific member, who's face he was very familiar with after the amount of times he'd made his fists acquaintance decided his squirming under threat just wasn't quite satisfying enough anymore.

That had been the worst day of his life up until that point, and he'd begged to be let go. He'd even begged to be shoved back out on the streets but his words went unnoticed, stuffed into a tiny back room with barely 3 meters between each wall. It might as well have been a large broom cupboard. He'd tried to push himself as far into one of the corners as he could, half sure he was about to die in that instance and maybe that would have been preferable to what came. Seems keeping himself pale skinny and greasy hadn't done him the favours he'd wanted as effectively as they could have. He'd had his face pushed into the wall, agonizingly tight grip in his hair as his trousers had been yanked down so roughly the front button had broken and the pull had caused bruises on his hips. The splitting, burning pain that followed made him scream, paw at the wall, until the pain reached a breaking point and he'd blacked out. When he'd woken up it had seemed his blacking out hadn't prevented the other guy from finishing the job. The limp home with broken trousers hadn't been a fun one, people stared, people KNEW. No one helped him, because no one dared, not unless they wanted to risk getting raped in a broom closet themselves. It had taken him a few days to recover from that, physically, but he never recovered mentally. He kept himself to himself after that, barely left his post, and never spoke about it.

He was good at his job, mock control and surveillance of the entire city of Peach trees. His clan had the access to every camera in the building, and therefore had eyes on practically every inch of the place. He knew what he was doing, and he only got better quickly the more he played with the system, keeping under the radar of sector but doing what needed to be done. They'd never really had issues in peach trees that challenged him, mostly it was involving surveillance of other gang movements, which should they displease his boss, got monitored and then removed. She had control over every last inch of the place, and he was her eyes. The better at his post he got the more they left him alone, because Mama wouldn't have taken too kindly to someone mauling her little techie boy. SHE was the only one permitted to mishandle him. Unfortunately, mishandling him herself would come. He was good at his job but only as good as his eyes were, he had the information on screen but he could only look at so may surveillances at a time. Perhaps if he had a group of technician's in here they could watch the system more effectively, but there were cheaper ways of improving his performance than keeping a few more technicians, cheaper…and far nastier for him.

He'd been called into her 'quarters' at about 9pm, curiously terrified because people didn't tend to be summoned past that heart adorned door very often, and if they did, coming back was unlikely. His entire body was shaking, head to foot, eyes kept firmly on floor. He knew his place, and he tried to stay in it. It wasn't the life he'd wanted for himself, but what choices did he have? He had to eat, and the streets would kill him quickly. No credit meant no eating, and begging could earn you time if a judge found you. Hands stuffed into charcoal grey cut off trousers, he stepped through like he was walking to the hangman's noose, no idea why he'd been called in. Once through he pulled his hands from his pockets and tugged at his Red t shirt, attempting to wipe the sweat off his palms as he looked up.

"You called for me…?"

Meek, voice barely stable, but they liked that didn't they? The amount of times other members stepped too close as and when he did leave his post just to see him swallow and cower were now countless, and he was pretty sure the knowledge of the broom cupboard incident was well and truly spread around. They knew, and they probably laughed, because they sure as hell liked to subtly imply threats of a repeat, and watch him try to ignore it.


	2. Chapter 2

Mama lifted her head, and smirked at his appearance. She wasn't in the least bit surprised as to his condition. Standing there; shaking and trying to rub the panic sweat off his palms. She doubted that was the only place on him currently sweating. He always was a coward, preferring to hide behind computer screens than actually be in the thick of it. Hell, he even hated normal contact with other humans as far as she could see. The joke about the broom closet was defiantly between the male company of the clan and kept (As was wise) very much away from their bosses attention. The techie would never dare report them to her and they knew that so the chances of the information reaching her, ever, were minute. He suffered in silence because it was safer that way, at least while they were laughing and making mock threats they weren't actually doing it. If he ratted, well, they might do worse.

Images flashed up in his mind. If he's thought one man in one small broom closet sized room was bad, he couldn't imagine a room full of the vile fuckers. He didn't think he'd even survive that kind of abuse, which is why he said nothing. If he was honest he thought Mama knew what her clan members could and did get up too, they were brutes after all. Disgusting, barbaric and immoral individuals, that's what made up the thick of any clan. They were dispensable because they were on mass, but that fact just made them all the more brutal; they did what they wanted. He knew that better than most.

Standing up, mama gestured weakly to her two accompanying brutes to stand to the side. This first moment or two would be hers alone, with her precious little techie boy. He meant something to her, or at least a lot more than her dozen a dime muscle boys. Anyone could be strong and build muscle, but brains and technological skill? No, that wasn't everyone. HE was hers and hers alone. He'd not been touched for months now, they'd started to click onto the fact that he belonged to her, and she was the only one who touched him. They didn't even threaten him anymore, and that was a relief. The little ginger brianiac had become 'off limits'.

"**Alex…"**

She was the only one who seemed to use his real name, and maybe she was the only one who even knew it, to everyone else he was just 'techie', even while he'd been taking that brute in the broom closet all he'd hear gruffly moaned into his ear was the word 'techie'. He'd never corrected them, he never dared too and Mama had apparently never released his name. Perhaps she liked to keep it to herself, so that when she alone addressed him it seemed so much more…personal. It was, right now, the moment she uttered his real and infrequently used name he held himself, eyes set firmly on the floor. She frightened him like every other member of the clan. He knew where he stood, and although that might be fairly high while he was in his office, as soon as it came to physical presence he was right down on the bottom.

He looked up at her as she approached him and again swallowed in the back of his throat, holding weak eye contact with his boss. She was still pretty even with those scars, and he didn't know why she'd really become what she was. Her teeth were slowly rotting but, for whatever reason, that didn't make her ugly. She was frightening and she was alarming but she was still beautiful and she knew it, that was how she still commanded men; somewhere between the brutal violence she could inspire and the lust she could entice. Lust isn't something he had any more though, after the broom closet. As far as sexuality went he simply forsook it for the sake of survival and, honestly; security. Being raped in a room closet tended to put you off the act for life, and he was no exception. Maybe, one day, if he found himself someone suitable, and by now gender really didn't matter, he'd settle. Until then everyone could stay the fuck away from him.

Mama raised her hand and gently stroked it through thick, lank dark ginger hair. His lack of washing It didn't disgust her, she might even know why he did that. Haircuts weren't cheap unless you did it yourself and she knew he wouldn't trust any of the clan near him with sharp scissors. A hair style was a luxury he wouldn't indulge in, but then she liked that. She liked how flinch-y and easy to manipulate he was.

He however, didn't like it in the slightest but he made no movement to give such impression. You didn't insult your clan leader and that was a moral to live by assuming living was your plan! He just accepted her stroking and kept his eyes down most of time, half in fear and half in respect. She demanded that even from the toughest of her clan; Respect. If you failed to show her that you might as well have just signed your own death warrant. He tilted his head into the stroking actually, almost purring for her. He knew she liked him to do that, liked to feel like his dominant saving grace because it gave her just that much more power over him. Maybe she was his saving grace. Maybe without her he'd have starved by now.

"You called me here."

Was all he could manage in a weak breathe while she was touching him. He didn't mean to sound like he was reminding her, he doubted she needed any reminding. Doubts that were put to even more rest when he grip tightened on him, but he didn't fight, he knew better than to fight even as he was lead over to a chair; a chair that looked a lot like a dental chair if you asked him, but he was turned and sat in it. Was he terrified? Yes. He was still visibly trembling and worst now he was sat here. He glanced around at the room a moment, noting two guys', one tall and tanned and the other white and heavily tattooed. Neither of which he immediately recognised but that didn't mean they weren't familiar with him, because sometimes he was smacked so much he couldn't even tell the sources.

**"I did, yes. We have some business to take care of."**

That was all she said. All she needed to say as he whimpered, the two men taking either of his arms and holding him down hard, their superior strength easily keeping him restrained on the seat. That was about the time he realized he was in even deeper shit that he'd initially though. She was on him before he had time to whimper, initially hushing him in a motherly soothing manner, thumbs brushing his cheeks before they began to move up; up towards his eyes. He wasn't stupid and he knew roughly what was coming. She'd turned his head a little sharply to face her such then as her thumbs when to his eyes, and he cried out, now struggling with fear. He wasn't stupid and he knew violence.

"No, not my eyes!"

Panic riddled him, but only for the moments just before the agony did as her sharp nailed thumbs tug into his eye sockets and gouged, taking his eyes with them. Blood trickled down his cheeks from the now open wounds of his removed senses and the holes where they'd been gaped painfully. Blinded and on the verge of being sick from pain if he didn't black out first, all he could do was struggle in the hopes of freedom and turn his head. Too late to save his eye sight, too late to stop the sockets from bleeding warmly down his pained cheeks, blood splattered from the initial push. Oh god the pain! He suddenly had no idea where he was, or what he was feeling; the strong grips on his arms were far away from him right now and all he knew was the damp, gaping and aching sting where his vision used to be. What now? What had he done wrong to deserve this? Was he destined to a life on his knees now; Unable to see the abuse coming for him? He had no idea, and right now his future wasn't at the forefront of his mind…actually the ache and potential death was.

He cried out and whimpered but he said nothing more, left there for a few moments to feel what was being done to him. If he had known this was coming he wouldn't have stayed. All he could do right this moment was whimper in agony. Mama said nothing to him, no words of hushing female comfort, no words to state otherwise to his expected impending death. Nothing, he just had to wait, and suffer, and hope what came next wasn't worst. He'd heard some times they'd pulled peoples teeth out, and skinned them. No possible ID for someone with no eyes, no teeth and no prints, and if they did that he'd be…nothing but a skinned pig. He was already nobody even within his clan. He really didn't want to die a nobody; his mother would be so ashamed.

He blacked out again when he felt the metal on the inside of his eye sockets, and that was all he remembered of that, thankfully. They installed those camera eyes, fusing and digging the technology into his nerves, his retinal connections. If he'd been awake for that he probably would have screamed all the louder but his…sensitive disposition cut him some slack, unlike his clan.

When he awoke, he blinked, and that in itself was shocking after a few moments of realisation. You couldn't blink if you had no eyes, but then you couldn't SEE if you had no eyes either and he, in vast unusual detail, could see the ceiling right now. In fact he could see the ceiling better than he was used too. His eyes were still painfully sore, the edges of were aching and complaining of abuse with every blink he took and he could smell the metallic tang of blood on the air; His blood and he knew it. He gave a few more sore blinks and whimpered before he looked around a little, at the walls; He was back in his own little space. If his eyes weren't sore like someone had rubbed chilli's into them he might have thought that was all a very, very bad dream but oh no; He knew otherwise.


	3. Chapter 3

Sitting up proved a little painful, his back strained to offer him the muscle power without complaining of bruising, like he'd just been dropped where he lay after whatever 'had happened' had happened. He was still in the same red shirt he'd been in the previous time he'd been conscious and, looking down, he found it slightly flecked with a deeper shade of claret red; Blood. His brain was having a little trouble registering everything at present. He felt like he was on some kind of euphoric drug with how much he could see. Everything was crystal clear, colours were intense and patterns seemed suddenly far more noticeable. He whimpered when he finally concluded his shirt was bloody and achingly endeavoured to pull it up over his head, and off. Shivering in the cold he finally attempted to stand, reaching out like he no longer had the same kind of depth perception and spatial awareness and grabbing desperately at the consoles and wires to steady himself. He pulled himself up, unsteady on his feet, and took a hard shuddering breathe.

It was sore to look around, but he clocked his ever faithful console chair and pushed himself towards it, grabbing onto the arm and hauled himself into it, finally sitting somewhere he felt steady. He hadn't glanced to his screen yet, and nor did he want too. He was aware of how bright it was without looking at it, as it was more or less the soul source of light in the room. His office was always dank and dimly lit, he'd liked that, but now low light didn't seem to make any difference to his eye sight. About a minute later of just sitting there, trying to regulate his chaotic vision, he remembered he'd taken his shirt off. He'd never be caught dead by any clan member without a shirt, and sometimes they barged in here, so he made a move to scurry for the small basket of clothes he kept in his office. He didn't really leave here that often, so he kept a few personals tucked in corners. He yanked out a slightly stained yellow shirt and tugged that on over his now messy red hair, and finally turned his swivel chair to face his monitor.

Looking up at it was a whole new world of bizarre. He scanned across the screen of various CCTV feeds, and his new eyes responded. They opened the lenses like it was a natural reflex and suddenly he could see more than just a few at once, he was taking in the entire screen of feeds at once. Every time new people walked into view on the screen they were highlighted in a blue square, bringing them to his attention. He couldn't bring himself to look away, jaw slowly dropping in what he was capable of seeing. If he'd had a mirror he'd have been grabbing for it right now, trying to see what exactly were now situated into his eye sockets but whatever they were, they were still eyes and they were capable of so much more. He wouldn't say they were preferable yet, he wouldn't say he liked them because at the end of it all, he'd still just undergone a very nasty eye gouging and passed out to get them. He was still in shock, although given a few hours that might wear off once he's over the workings of his new eyes.

He felt a little dizzy again, and he looked away from the screen and held his head, only then realizing he had a throbbing headache. After the assult his blood sugar levels must be chronically low, his skin colour wasn't just its usual red headed shade of pale, it was grey and clammy from the shock he was still suffering the dregs of. He still had creds this week, perhaps a trip the medical centre for nutrients was wise. He could eat, but actually buying nutrients was cheaper than buying the food you needed to get them. Artificial intake was easier than good clean food in a world like this, where farms did not exist. It was all concrete, all run down in most parts, so most everything you could get was either fake, recycled food (Good for the environment and OK for you, apparently), or bad for you. If you were poor, and he sure as hell wasn't rolling in it right now, then you learnt to do without the good stuff, you just got by.

He had no idea how he was going to make it with this vision. What on earth the outside of this room would look like this these additions. You'd think maybe he'd protest, knowing who had done what to him but any living man with a brain did not even question let alone protest to their clan leaders actions. He could see, so he'd just avoid her as long as he could and try and cope. It would do nothing for his already unstable and nervous disposition to being around people, but this was how it was. Best not to argue what couldn't be changed now. Oh no, just live with it, Alex. He shakily got up, trying to stabilize himself on his feet for a moment, his balance thrown off by his new vision, not to mention his pale inducing lack of sugar. He felt sick now he was standing, but his body quickly gained its sense of up and down, and he was able to let go of the console and take a few steps. Okay, good…Now he just had to make it to the elevator, and down to the medward level. He quickly checked his pockets which, thankfully, still had his cred-card in it and made his way to the door.

The trip down to level 35 was…quiet, very few people between his door and nearest elevator. All of the thug gang members were probably holed up in their respective rooms indulging in various drugs, including SloMo. He'd never done Slomo himself, and never felt inclined too; waste of creds on nothing but a dangerous high. Maybe thugs liked to risk their lives for a cheap thrill, but he didn't. What he liked was survival, and enough food. Peace and quiet like he'd once had. He was scraping by to survive now, but that was life when you had no one else. He kept his head down and his hair forward into his face, trying to keep his eyes down on the floor. He had no idea what he must look like but having your eyes gouged out and replaced probably wasn't pretty. The elevator was a short lived enclosed comfort, liking the boxed in feeling before he had to endure the open again, shuffling into the medical centre and down to its pharmacy, avoiding eye contact as he ordered his vitamin boosts. He got an odd look, but nothing more, and kept himself hunched and closed in. Not many other people in the med centre today, but he still didn't want people gwarping at his eyes considering how red and sore they must be.

He stopped by a street vendor for a tub of noodles, because they were cheap and he'd already had his intake, so he could afford to gobble a little junk food. Junk food was cheap and on mass in this "new" world, it was fast and convenient, perfect for a hungry, over-crowded and demanding occupant. All he wanted was something to stop his stomach complaining, and there was probably a fair amount of sugar in this mockery of oriental food. He needed sugar. He'd scoffed his little box of it by the time he was back in the elevator, headed back to his semi safe little box up the top level. The ride up felt a little better, and he was adjusting to the new vision now. He could walk in a straight line and that was enough.

He stepped out into the dimly light corridor that he had to walk down and take a few turns to get to his destination. He could hear the throbbing of music from a specific room he knew belonged to members of his clan. It was marked on the door with a little heart under the handle; room number 7,999. He hated passing any room he knew might have occupants that would recognise him, so he stuffed his hands into his cut offs and attempted as quick a pace past that door as he could. He had plans to rest when he was back, rest and then maybe see what he could do about getting back to work, try not to cry over everything he'd just endured in what he wasn't even sure was the last 24 hours. How long as he been out after he'd fainted? Could be hours, could be days, he wasn't sure yet. The blood on his red shirt had been very dry, so it had been a fair while before he'd regained consciousness. It was while he was wondering on this thought, walking fast, that room 7,999's door opened…

_"Hey, Techie boy…"_

Oh no, come on. He'd had enough recently, but he knew better than to completely ignore one of the boys. If they were going to taunt him over something, maybe his eyes or maybe just another 'broom closet' comment then he might as well get it over with. They'd left him alone for a while and he'd thought he'd finally done his time, but apparently not. He stopped abruptly to the name call 'techie boy' and swallowed, closing his sore eyes and bracing himself before turning back to him, hair still partially in his face to try and cover what he didn't yet know were alarming-looking eyes. He then offered a forced up smile that took all his effort to maintain.

"Can I help you?"


	4. Chapter 4

He really didn't like to be addressed, not unless it was in his room, and that meant it was going to be about something technical. Only certain people went in his room, his room was for the most parts an off limits ground and that's why he stayed in there so much. It was a like a safer little box for him to crawl into, where it was all wires and nothing really touched him apart from –her-. Out here in the corridor, well…open grounds. If they wanted to pick on him they mostly could. Of course, they hadn't touched him for a while now, just thrown the occasional intimidation act, stepped too close, made him feel uncomfortable, but he'd thought he'd finally become off limits. Right now those dreams of being untouchable seemed a little dashed, because he doubted he'd been stopped to fix someone's computer. He stood there awkwardly for a few moments between the question and answer, eyes down, hair forward, ankles together and palming the edge of his shirt again to stop himself sweating.

_"Yeah, I'm sure you can. Come here."_

He finally lifted his eyes, if only enough to catch the appearance of the man asking him to come over. He was a tall, broad, Latino looking man. Tattooed up one side of his neck with Tribal, and the tell-tale MAMA heart on the other side, indicating his alliance. Alex had one of those too; it was fainter, because he didn't get it re-done every so often like the other men of the clan, but it was there, inked into his skin by backstreet tattooists. It was the only tattoo he had, and the only one he wanted, for that matter. The other guy looked covered in them, but then most members of any clan were, and if you thought THIS clan's stamp mark was bad and obvious (always on their neck), they you should see the 'Judged'. They took clan stamping to a whole new level.

He obeyed the command after a moment's hesitation and took a few steps back down the corridor towards him, against every fibre of his being telling him not too. This wasn't going to end with anything good and he knew it, but he also knew if he didn't go over there they'd make a personal vendetta out of his disobedience and they'd get him sooner or later; and that would be worse. He knew how it all worked, and if you didn't have any means of self-defence then you just had to endure being picked on. This was his lot, but the clan gave him somewhere to be; a home, and they provided him with cred for food. He didn't have any other choice than to be right here now, so being picked on was how it was in his life for now. He guessed that was the circle of life anyway, wasn't it? The smaller animals are jostled by the stronger, but they also offered the smaller one's the food they couldn't hunt for themselves.

He tried to keep his eyes down and hidden from sight as much as he could, aided and abetted by his lank red hair forward in his face. No doubt the changes were obvious. Even if he'd been passed out for days and not hours, the redness around them must still be obvious. You didn't get your eyes gouged out without a little swelling and discolour afterwards. He might even have bruising under them, on the delicate skin below his eyes and on his cheeks, but he still hadn't glanced in a mirror yet to check, and nor had he touched his face. He was scared to touch his face.

The Latino raised his arm over the techie's shoulders in a gesture of mock friendliness, knowing how much the redhead hated to be touched by them, and forcefully lead him inside room 7,999. Inside there were about 7 or 8 other members, all lounged around the edge of the room in chairs, bean bags and on couches. The walls were once wall papered, but that wallpaper now sported graffiti all over it in multi-coloured spray paints, all gang signs and names. The tables were all littered with smoking trays, glasses of whatever the heck and empty brown bottles that probably once held alcohol, and mixed into these messes were now used slowmo inhalers. In the centre of the room was a little table, on which were a few unopened bottles, and a small pile of unused slowmo inhalers. Alex really didn't want to be here.

He'd looked up briefly to note the number of people in here and winced. He'd hoped for a few less but it could have been worse. He was sat down in one of the individual chairs amidst the gathering of all-male members and a brown bottle shoved into his hand. You'd think maybe it was a welcome gesture of 'let's hang' but he knew better, this wasn't about making him feel one of them. It never was. This was about him being the gatherings latest entertainment. The Latino guy looked muscled enough to snap his neck like a twig so he didn't reject the drink, despite not being much of a drinker. He raised the bottle to his lips slowly and upended it. The strong and slightly over powering taste of cheap beer hit his tongue and he swallowed abruptly, lowering the bottle and coughing, earning a little chuckle from the room. He rapidly placed the bottle aside on the closest reachable table, one sip was enough.

_"Was'matter, ya don't drink much, pretty boy?"__  
__  
_Pretty boy?! The name would have made him wince if he'd been brave enough to display his distaste for it. It certainly made his stomach churn. They'd done the stepping closer act a few times but the mockery had never been quite as obvious as the nickname 'pretty boy'. It put his nerves on end even more than having his personal space invaded, because at least they backed off after a few moments, but those words hung in the air like a promise now. This guy specifically thought he was pretty? Probably not, he hoped not, but finding him pretty had nothing to do with their intention to cause him grief. They still knew he'd never make any formal complaint. You didn't complain in a clan, you just took what was given to you and got on with it, and he knew that by now. There was no complaints line but he also knew if she found out about this, she wouldn't be happy. He didn't have the nerve to try and set them up, so he just went on as it was. He finally looked up to him, body subtly trembling but he was hiding it well under baggy clothes.

"Not often."

Indignance in his voice; but he couldn't let the question hang without an answer or they'd pursue one. He really was in a room of drugged up, drunk animals. As he spoke he could see the other guys eyes focus a little more on him, like he'd just noticed something and he knew what that was. Were his eyes that alarming? The Latino guy was hunched over him and leaning him back hard into the back of his seat in seconds, hand pressed to Alex's chest to make him tilt back as far as he could. His breathing picked up in alarm, head resting back against the back of the chair and making his hair fall out of his face. The other guy's dark brown eyes were alight with curiosity and interest now that the new eyes were very displayed for him, and Alex squirmed under the proximity. He'd do just about anything to get out of this right now.

_"Hey Fella's, come take a look at this!"__  
__  
_Yeah, like he needed more of the brutes crowding around him, but a few did push up (Probably the only ones coherent at the time and not tripping on Slowmo), and sauntered over to take a peek. They exuded just as much delighted enthusiasm to his appearance, so whatever his eyes looked like must be quite startling. Every time a new face came into his vision, that same blue highlighting box registered them. That was unusual and irritating for him but right now it was pretty low on his 'give a shit' scale. He wanted home, away from being a freak show for these guys. He held still though, breathe fluttering in his chest that was currently heaving a little. He had to admit their reactions to him made him a little curious. What DID they look like?

That thought flew out of his mind though, not having said anything since he'd been backed up in his chair, when proximity got even more uncomfortable for him. He'd been so busy registering the amount of faces being shoved in his that he'd barely noticed the hand on his chest initially move. When it reached his navel he registered it, and it was still traveling down. Down over an un-toned, young but flat stomach, onto the pronounced hip bone where his trousers hung just below. The Latino man's thumb traced the curve of the bone there and dipped slightly into the groove of his groin, rubbing his skin through his trousers on his left hand side. He swallowed deeply in his throat and arched a little in discomfort, breathing now becoming more erratic. This as easily the worst case of mockery they'd made him suffer so far, it had never gotten quite this psychical.

_"Ya know, I like big eyes on a girl."__  
__  
_A girl; he was being compared to a girl, just brilliant! He held as still as his squirming would allow, trying not to upset his assailant into anything more violent right now. If this escalated he'd talk, probably nothing but begging and asking them to stop but more would certainly prompt him to talk. He didn't fancy any more pain than he'd recently suffered. Of course 'IF' was a stupid word to use; of course it was going to escalate. One of the other men rose his hands and clawed his red hair back off his face and shoulders more, exposing increasingly paling skin. He wasn't the average looking Red-head. He didn't bare the stereotypical amass of freckles, but instead had flawlessly milk-pale skin, made more evident by flaming orange hair that was the same across his whole body, including his eyebrows. Once upon a time he'd had pale blue eyes to go with it, but his new eyes seemed to evoke a reaction of equal pleasure.

He swallowed again, looking up momentarily to the member making sure his expressions were visible. This guy wasn't Latino, he was white with pale green eyes and ash blonde hair. He had less tattoos than the Latino guy but they were still there. Alex mused that if this guy didn't have the built, lean muscle he did he'd probably not look too far off how Alex looked. If the techie had any inclination to become one of 'them' he might have tried to build some muscle, but with how he was he didn't even know where to start. He didn't have a 'tough' streak and he didn't desire to have one either. His realm was the virtual one and he didn't want to be a thug. That wasn't the boy his momma had raised.

He was distracted for only a moment with the second guys appearance, about to move onto studying the others when he felt that thumb breach the edge of his belt line and run skin to skin under the rim of his underwear, trousers dipping to allow the violation. His hips bucked automatically in protest as he felt the proximity of that thumb to personal spaces. Aside from it being unwanted, it tickled like mad. His eyes shot to the assaulting Latino hovering over him with his thumb pressed in his groin area, body now shaking far more visibly. He didn't know how effective begging would be, but he didn't have much else going for him except to inspire pity, which these men didn't have a lot of.

"Please. Please don't…"

Was all he managed, begging the other guy to stop touching him like that. That didn't seem much like mockery any more. It was going further than it had since the actual broom closet incident. He'd not seen that gang member again since, but then there were a lot of them. This guy was doing an effective job of replacing him though. All his words seemed to do was amuse them, earning a soft chuckle from one of the guys above and behind him, looking down. He was surrounded by animals. The Latino guy seemed just as amused, but he didn't offer a chuckle, merely an amused smirk on fairly handsome but intimidating features.

_"Don't stop? D'__ya hear that boys? Sh__e likes it." __  
__  
_There was no point in arguing with that comment but he still repeatedly muttered a slightly panicked "No no no" in response, struggling a little in his chair now. More laughter issued above him. His adrenaline was picking up fast now and he wanted to run, he just didn't fancy the chase or the possible beating that would come if he wasn't quick enough to get out of their grip. Speaking of grip, his struggles earned him a restraining. Two of the men above him took painfully hard holds on his wrists and locked him down in his chair, leaving him with nothing but his heavy breathing and arching. This was getting out of hand now. The ring leader glanced up to his associates with nothing short of sadism in his eyes now.

_"Shall we see what else __s__he likes?"_

That earned a slightly squeaky complaint from him and more struggling, now realising this was about to go far further than mocking. Not again, please, he really didn't need this right now, not directly after his eyes. He'd barely gotten through the shock of that and now this? Part of him wondered if fate even meant for him to survive, because if it wasn't one thing it was another right now. He prayed above all other things that his mom wasn't sitting up there and looking down on this. He felt a little sick, dizzy even at the prospect of what might be about to happen, and this time there were a room full of the bastards! That Latino one intended to touch him, and what…with the others watching? Whether or not he kept those noodles down he'd eaten earlier would remain to be seen.

He felt the buttons go on the front of his cut off trousers, before both those and his underwear were yanked down to his mid shins, exposing him. The Latino guy seemed to straighten up a little as he looked down on him a moment, revelling in Alex's humiliation. All he could do was stare up at the ceiling and try to ignore what was happening to him, try to push down the nausea and shame he was feeling sitting in that chair with his pants down round his ankles in a room full of junkie thugs. He didn't make eye contact with any of them, just trying to get through this with as little damage as he could.

_"Well, well, men, Looks like we've got a boy after all."__  
__  
_Yeah, no kidding. He bucked again as he felt a hand running up his inside thigh, and he instantly wished he'd locked his knees together but he suspected the muscles in those arms would be enough to pry them back open even if he did. By now he'd sussed begging and pleading wasn't going to get him much. He was used to being smacked around, intimidated, even having knives shoved in his face but this agonizingly slow humiliation was unbearable. When he felt hands on him he protested verbally again, but it got him nothing but a harder touch. Who was this guy kidding? If he thought he could make Alex like this he was wrong. No amount of being handled right now was going to invoke any sort of arousal from him, if anything it was going to make him sick.

This seemed to prove amusing to the men above again, and by now he was shaking harder. He arched and swallowed, half wishing this abuse did something for him so he could at least offer them some satisfaction, maybe they'd stop if he got off on it, but he didn't; couldn't. He couldn't even bring himself to fake it convincingly so he didn't try. His reactions didn't seem to satisfy the Latino in front of him, who looked distinctly unimpressed with the reaction to his efforts. He really didn't want to upset that guy further but he couldn't force himself to like this. He was terrified and that usually put a downer on potential erections, and aside from that he just really wasn't into the men who had him. He didn't really contemplate his sexuality much, he wasn't even sure he had one, but he knew for sure he wasn't 'feeling' any of these guys. His dark eyed assailant looked up at his face a moment before up to the other men, who rapidly stopped laughing when they noticed his displeasure.

_"Wadda'ya say boys, hit him with a little Slowmo?"__  
__  
_Alex's already alarmingly big eyes widened to that. He'd never touched the stuff and never planned too. He looked horrified at the idea, chest rising and falling hard as he watched the other guy lean over to the little table in the middle of the room and pick up one of the inhalers. He shook it, before turning back to him intently and leaned up, having to lean slightly between his legs as one of the other men took a handful of his hair and yanked his head back against the chair so he couldn't move it. That inhaler came up to his mouth, and if he thought closing his mouth wouldn't just make him push it on his lips until they bled he'd have done that. The dispenser was placed almost caringly between his lips, and Alex closed his eyes hard as it was delivered in a shot of slightly sweet tasting vapours.

Oh fuck no.


	5. Chapter 5

His world slowed, down into an agonising speed, where even smoke was slow enough to study shapes it made. Those HD eyes rose, falling on the face In front of him. He felt dazed, light headed and his eyes could barely focus. Panic was ebbing away into a false sense of euphoric comfort, but even as the drug took a hold on his perception and senses, he was still very self-aware; aware he was in nothing short of a life threatening situation. If he was still sober he'd be slipping into hyperventilation right now. The Latino, still leaning between his legs, grinned at the spaced expression laced on Alex's face, and Alex was all too aware his torture this evening was only just about to start.

Above him he could hear the slowed down, low pitched echoes of laughter that probably happened about 5 seconds before it even registered with him, the other two tormentors above him seeming to take a gleeful joy in his reaction to his first ever hit of slowmo. If he was focused enough on the world right now he could officially say he didn't like it, it took every little bit of control, no matter how small, that he'd had over this situation and thrown it to the proverbial dogs; these dogs, human, slobbering, thuggish dogs. It rendered even his hopes of breaking free and running completely out of reach, because his sense of direction was shot, and even then his brain registered everything so slowly that he doubted he could move with any conviction right now. By the time he'd turned his head to scope the exit they'd be onto him. He didn't want to make this worse for himself, and right now just surviving would be a welcome break.

It didn't really occur to him they COULDN'T kill him, because of that tattoo on his neck. He was one of them, even if he was a lower one, an underdog they could smack around because he wouldn't complain, but he still belonged to this 'family' and that meant killing him was an offence, but everything else apparently wasn't, because he'd take it and not dare utter a word for fear of worse. That was the criminally unfair system of ranking, and it was a pretty poor standard of life if you found yourself at the bottom. You weren't dead though, you weren't starving on the streets. You might get beaten a bit, you might get abused, and you might have your dignity stripped, BUT life could be worse. Out there…

….In here you were fed and housed, at least. You weren't on your knees, begging or sucking for enough credits to eat a few times a week. Outside was a grim world if you had nothing, and he might not like being touched up in here, but at least he didn't have to sell himself. He'd make a poor robber, his nerve was shot, and he'd make an even worse thug. Being how he was and how he looked, out there would only leave him in the low down whore houses, and there was no protection from harm in those.

He tensed when he felt the Latino leaning harder towards him between his legs, running his hand up the side of thigh in the same manner as one might touch a woman. If he wasn't terrified he'd be sick of that already, and the slowmo in his system really dragged out the petrifying anticipation of whatever it was they were going to do with him. He was almost sick when that hand reached his pronounced hip bone, gripping it under the edge of his t shirt, thumb fitting into the front curve of his pelvis. It was almost too much to bare already, his skin was tingling from the drug in a way he'd rather it didn't in this situation. He stared back into dark brown eyes with his own unnatural ones, lower lip trembling a little as he tried to focus on him. He wasn't stupid enough to ask what he planned to do to him, so no words were exchanged. Just looks.

Slowly, and probably still about 5 seconds after it had actually happened, he realized the Latino was drawing a knife from his belt line. A small but razor sharp looking flip knife that looked like it'd gut you in one swoop. Alex's trembling increased ten-fold, a tiny squeak of a whimper escaping him, trying to push himself up a little against the back of the chair as he watched the glinting sliver of metal get lowered between himself and the Latino, between his legs. His eyes shot back up to his face when he felt the cold metal brush at the crease between his thigh and his groin. They'd wanted a girl right, but this? He wouldn't put it past them to castrate him no, but he was begging with all his spiritual might that they wouldn't.

That knife travelled along a bit, closer, ghosting across dark auburn body hair, before moving lower. The near pained expression on his face must have been satisfying to see as he held as still as the urge to squirm away would allow him, feeling the razor sharp metal shave against the skin of his balls. Inside he was in hysterics, but if he wanted to keep every bit of himself right now he had to hold still and obey the rules. This wasn't their plan, this was just intimidation, playing with him to get him to comply with other demands when they made them. This was more of a 'if you don't be a good boy, this is what will happen to you' statement. He nodded vaguely in understanding when the knife stopped moving, a sort of indication he'd comply with the ground rules here, and that got the knife taken away from his unmentionables.

Thank fuck. Oh thank fuck!

But then, here came the demands. The hand not holding the knife came up, brushed back more of his unwashed red hair, before trailing down his cheek, onto his jaw line. Foul, every one of these guys, humanities lowest and here he was stuck in a room of them. He really hoped his mother wasn't looking down from the heavens on this, what he'd been reduced too. He'd just go along and sleep it off like he'd done a few times before, eventually he'd block it out and maybe it wouldn't happen again, maybe. He told himself that after every beating, but it had rarely gone much further than a rough up. Here it was going way beyond just a rough up. He lowered his eyes when the touch trailed down his jaw and down his throat onto his collar bone, before it gripped the shirt he wore and tugged it roughly up over his head, the other two forcing him to lift his arms and before he could really make any daring move to protest his shirt was off and abandoned to the floor.

Now he really had nothing going for him, dignity wise. No shirt, and his Jeans around his ankles, and that touch was trailing down from his collar bone now, down his chest in the centre and onto his stomach. He was being felt up, 'admired' even and it was all so AGONIZINGLY SLOW! He squirmed more, but they didn't seem to mind his squirming now. A few seconds later he felt his jeans being pulled off his feet, discarded with his t shirt, and his slip on shoes being pulled off, leaving him in nothing but his socks. The shame rose in his skin, and sank in the pit of his stomach which was already complaining of sickness. He looked away from him finally, trying to find somewhere in the room where he didn't have to make eye contact with someone.

Next he felt that knife again, this time grazing along his collar bone, and followed by a lick. He flinched to that, now aware he was being leant over, and still unable to close his legs. That knife trailed down a little, never cutting, just scraping his skin and where it went so did that mouth. It did nothing for him, not that he thought that was why it was happening anymore. He was being used, humiliated, and he was more than aware of this no matter how slow the world around him moved. He had no idea how the other two assailants were reacting to what was happening. He didn't look. He didn't want to know. He knew he was nothing more than the afternoons entertainment to these monsters and that was all he needed to know, the rest he just had to endure and hopefully walk away with everything, testicles included, intact. He arched ever so slightly when he felt the knife circle his navel, the gentility of it feeling more like a promise of a stab before he felt the tongue dip into it. A look of discomfort streaked his face, because despite the metal being dragged on his skin, the feeling of someone's tongue slipping in and out of his belly button was actually quite pleasant.

He kept reminding himself of the situation he was in, kept telling himself everything he didn't want to hear in order for that slow wet torment a little too close to his groin not to take effect. What seemed like hours of this passed in less than a minute for him before the onslaught to his navel stopped, leaving a cold void where rejected pleasure had been. He breathed out slowly, his world still spinning under the influence of the drug, and somewhere in the distance he heard the words 'mark him first' in slow deep voices. Mark him? Before what?! He'd have struggled to find out if he could have but before his brain even registered the desire to push up his wrists were back to being held against the seat arms, small lines of red starting to appear on his skin wherever that knife had been dragged. The Latino in front of him had started to laugh a little, and Alex registered the idea that that tongue lashing to his navel had been just a little metaphorical.

His hair was gripped again and he felt the back of his skull impact the back of the chair with a soft thud, the pain in his scalp enough to daze him a second before he felt the sharp point of a needle press against his forehead. What in the bloody hell was that?! It was too close and his mind was too out of focus to connect fully with those new eyes of his. No matter what data they were sending down the line, his brain wasn't registering it in time. Why anyone would take this stuff willingly was beyond him. Then that buzzing sound pierced the air, one he was only vaguely familiar with, and a pain he was unused too followed. A sharp, aching sting to the skin of his forehead which took him about 5 seconds to jerk away from but by then it was too late, they'd already inscribed some unreadable jibberish above his right eyebrow with a tattoo gun. He couldn't see the damage but he knew well enough they'd just marred his face a little.

"Stop, please...enough."

He blurted out, slurring his words a little through heavy panting of panic, pain and distress. He'd been trying not to beg, not to fuel the sadistic pleasure they were getting out of him but tattooing his face was taking things in a very uncomfortable direction. He didn't want any more gang signs on him than he already had inked into the side of his neck, and worse: he feared it was a claim mark. Some gangs used them, bigger members putting their mark on smaller ones, bit like a prison system. That's what a gang could be if you weren't at the top. His head was swimming now with an inked in headache, coupled with the spinning the slowmo was causing. He wasn't too sure he could keep those noodles down for much longer.

Needless to say, his begging earned him no mercy.


End file.
